


of witchers and men

by ewelinakl



Series: a modern bestiary [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Non-Graphic Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22351297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ewelinakl/pseuds/ewelinakl
Summary: Geralt sees a singer in trouble and simply has to help.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, past Geralt of Rivia/Emiel Regis, past Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: a modern bestiary [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608940
Comments: 28
Kudos: 332





	of witchers and men

Geralt wasn't a big fan of live music. But, alas, Old Narakort was about the only place in town where he wouldn't accidentally run into Yennefer.

Sometimes the music was alright. Like that Klezmer band playing covers of pop songs. Or Jaskier with his soft folk-rock. His ballads were a little sappy, but he had a nice voice, and Geralt had a broken heart.

Tonight's band, however, was trying to be the next Pink Floyd, but instead sounded like a bunch of feral goats on hallucinogens. When they finally stopped torturing their audience, Geralt let out a deep sigh of relief. Blessed silence.

He finished his drink — gin and tonic because he'd grown this bitter over the past few months, apparently — and stood up. There was some big football game tonight and soon enough the fans would flood the bar to get wasted while yelling at the TV. Geralt was not planning to listen to that, his hearing was damaged enough from the concert.

He put on his jacket and patted the back pockets of the leather pants that Eskel mocked all the time. His phone and wallet were right where they should be. He was ready to go.

But then he saw Jaskier.

He was panicked, tense, like a hare running from a hunt, a jarring juxtaposition to his usual demeanor of brightly smiling heart-whisperer. Geralt's eyes scanned the crowd, trying to find whatever — or whoever — had reduced the ever-cheerful singer to this.

“Julian!” someone called, loud enough to be heard over the murmur of the crowd and an old love song playing in the background.

Jaskier froze, shoulders slumping, fists balling. He looked resigned as if he'd realised he had nowhere to run. Geralt didn't like the look on his face, the ghastly pallor of his skin.

He'd promised himself he wouldn't get involved in situations like this. He'd gotten in enough trouble because of his stupid heroics. But he couldn't just walk away now, he couldn't leave until he made sure Jaskier was safe. Yen would have a lot to say about this. Yen was elsewhere, though, probably with Istredd.

“Two beers, please,” he said to the bartender, tapping at the counter to get their attention.

“What kind?” they asked, clearly unaware of how the situation and its urgency. Geralt glared at them. “Czech lager's good?” the bartender asked, turning to the fridge behind them.

“Yeah, whatever.”

Geralt left a banknote on the counter without waiting for change. He was going to regret it in the morning when doing groceries for the next week, but this was future Geralt's problem. Present Geralt had to get to Jaskier before the other person, whoever they were.

“Julian!”

Now Geralt saw him — a dark-haired man with a deep frown between his brows and mouth pursed in anger. He was still far enough. There was a large group of young girls separating him from Jaskier.

Geralt made it in time. Jaskier looked at him, his eyes huge and very blue from up close, questioning.

“Sorry it took so long, there was a bit of a queue,” Geralt said, pushing a bottle into Jaskier's hands, and then leaned in, as if for a quick kiss. “Is that guy bothering you?” he asked.

Jaskier only made a small, desperate sound. Geralt stepped a little bit closer.

“Do you want me to handle that?” he asked.

Jaskier's eyes — cornflower blue and hopeful — met Geralt’s, as he nodded. “Could you?” he whispered, and Geralt had to read this question from the movement of his lips because his voice drowned in the noise.

Geralt nodded, cracking a reassuring smile before he wrapped an arm around Jaskier's waist, pulling him closer and planting a small kiss on his forehead, just when the dark-haired man reached them. Geralt looked at him over Jaskier's head, raising his brows in a silent question. The other man ignored it.

“Julian,” he snapped, voice cold with fury.

Jaskier closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath as if steadying himself before facing that man.

“Need something, mate?” Geralt asked, pulling Jaskier closer until his chest pressed into Geralt’s side. He felt very small against Geralt, very breakable, like something that needed care and protection.

“From you?” the dark-haired man asked. “No. I want to have a little chat with Julian. Alone,” he said, his eyes turning to Jaskier, whose hand clutched at Geralt's shirt.

Geralt nuzzled Jaskier's temple with his nose. “Should I give you guys a moment?” he asked.

Jaskier shook his head, his gaze fixed on the other man as if he were a vicious snake that couldn’t be let out of sight. Who was that guy? Jaskier's ex?

“There's no need to,” Jaskier said. “We have nothing to talk about.”

His speaking voice was so much different than his singing one. It was smaller, softer, lower.

“Oh yes, we do,” the dark-haired man said, narrowing his eyes.

Geralt smiled, baring his teeth. “You heard him, mate. Get lost,” he said, turning to Jaskier. “Let's go home, hm?” he suggested, plucking the beer bottle out of Jaskier’s hands and leaving it on a nearby table. What a waste of money. “The football drama is about to start and you know I can't stand it.”

Jaskier only nodded as if he didn't trust his voice anymore. Geralt let go of his waist and interlaced their fingers. The dark-haired man tried to say something, but Geralt ignored him, pulling Jaskier to the exit door.

They held hands until they left the bar and turned around the corner. Then Jaskier's fingers slipped out of Geralt's grasp as the singer dropped into a low squat.

“Fuck, shit, thank you, thank you so much,” he mumbled, breathing hard as if he'd been running the whole way here.

Geralt gave him a moment to calm down and recollect himself, before asking, “Does he know where you live?”

Jaskier only laughed in response and it was the most heart-wrenching sound Geralt had ever heard.

“You can stay at my place tonight,” he said.

Jaskier looked up at him, his eyes round in gentle surprise, head tilted to the side as if he wasn't sure if he'd heard right. Which was a fair reaction, considering that they didn't know each other. Geralt had seen Jaskier perform a few times, but it was unlikely that the singer had noticed him in the crowd.

“I—.” Jaskier licked his lips. “Don't worry, I'll be fine, I just—.” He let out a deep sigh, sliding his fingers into his already tousled hair. “I'm gonna be fine.”

He didn't sound like it, though, and Geralt was sure that he wasn't planning on going home. Geralt should just drop it, Jaskier was a grown-up man, after all, he could make his own decisions, but this neighborhood wasn't exactly safe, especially after football games.

“Come on,” Geralt said, offering the singer a hand. “It's just a few blocks away. A walk will do you good.”

Jaskier hesitated for a moment, studying Geralt's face, and though Geralt's face or his overall demeanor of a buff, gruff biker weren't exactly trust-building, the singer took his hand, hauling himself up.

“Alright,” he said. “Let's go, then.”

They walked in silence, close to each other, but without touching. Geralt slid his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. Jaskier’s fingers fumbled with the buttons of his fancy coat. He was still awfully pale, but seemed a lot calmer now, less afraid. Geralt wanted to ask about that man but decided to drop the topic for now.

“I live with my brother,” he said instead. “He’s probably gonna be there.”

Jaskier glanced at him, nodding. “Alright,” he said. He took a deep breath, as if he wanted to say something more, but gave up on it eventually, only cracking a small, tired smile.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the way, just kept looking at each other every once in a while. Jaskier smiled sheepishly every time Geralt caught his gaze, and though Geralt was famously too serious and forever-grumpy, he smiled back.

The apartment smelled of Blue Jeans, meaning that Eskel was getting ready for a date. He hadn’t mentioned that.

“Eskel?” Geralt called, taking Jaskier’s coat and hanging it in the closet.

“Yeah?” Eskel called back from the bathroom. “Give me a sec, I’m almost ready.”

Geralt led Jaskier to the kitchen, making him chamomile tea with honey. Jaskier accepted it with a thankful smile and perched on a stool, wrapping his hands around the mug. His hands were small and very delicate compared to Geralt’s — smooth skin, slender fingers, and well-manicured nails.

“What’s up, man?” Eskel asked, walking into the kitchen, surrounded by a thick cloud of his perfume. He paused and raised his brows, noticing Jaskier. “Hey, I know you, you’re that singer. Saw you a few times in Narakort and Three Lions. You’re really good.”

Jaskier smiled at him. “Thanks,” he said.

“I mean it,” Eskel said, opening the fridge to grab a bottle of water and take a few long sips. “I’d buy your album if you get one out.”

“I’ll keep you updated, then,” Jaskier promised.

Eskel raised his water bottle in an appreciative gesture.

“You’re going out?” Geralt asked.

“Yeah, with Triss,” Eskel said, grinning.

Oh. Triss. Yennefer’s best friend, with whom Geralt slept once, after finding out Yen had been cheating on him with Istredd. It was a very childish act of retaliation, but Geralt was really fucking bad at adulting. He’d hoped he could just forget about this incident, but it seemed like the world wasn’t going to let him.

“I hope I’m not coming back tonight, so you guys will have the whole place to yourselves,” Eskel said, wiggling his eyebrows. “Just no hanky-panky in my bed, please.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “Do you really think anyone would like to have sex in that dumpster you call your room?”

“Fair enough.” Eskel laughed, putting his water back in the fridge. “Alright, guys, gotta go, can’t keep the lady waiting. See you tomorrow, Jaskier,” he added, winking at the singer.

Geralt sighed, shaking his head. “Don’t mind him, he’s an idiot,” he said.

Jaskier snorted. “At least he’s got good taste in music,” he said.

Geralt looked at him, listening to Eskel fumbling with his boots and jacket in the hallway. “You’re very humble, aren’t you?” he said.

Jaskier let out a quiet laugh, ruffling his hair. He was beginning to look and sound a lot more like the cute, talented singer that nearly every teenager in the neighbourhood had a bit of a crush on. “Not really, but, hey, modesty is overrated.”

The front door closed, announcing Eskel’s departure. Jaskier looked at Geralt, biting his lip. “I just realised that I know your brother’s name, but not yours,” he said.

Right. He didn’t introduce himself. Idiot. “Geralt,” he said.

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated, slowly, dreamily. “It would sound well in a song,” he decided. “You don’t look alike, you and your brother,” he added, lifting the mug to take a sip of the chamomile tea.

Geralt shrugged. “We’re not blood-brothers, that’s why,” he explained.

“Oh,” Jaskier said to that. “I see. Do you have more siblings, or it’s just the two of you?”

“There’s four of us,” Geral said, leaning against the kitchen counter and smiling. “Eskel and I are the same age. Then there’s Coën, he’s three years younger, studying aviation. And Lambert, he’s still in high-school and a huge drama queen. What about you?” he asked.

Jaskier winced for a second. “I’m an only child,” he said. “My parents don’t exactly get along.”

Geralt nodded. He didn’t press, the topic was clearly uncomfortable for Jaskier. “You can sleep in my room tonight,” he said instead. “And I’m gonna take the sofa in the living room. It’s not very comfortable, plus the room gets a bit chilly in the morning.”

Jaskier looked at him, knitting his brows together. “No, look, this is your home and your bed. You’ve been chivalrous enough saving me from that monster and bringing me here. I’ll take the sofa, and I’ll be perfectly fine there, don’t worry.”

Geralt doubted that, considering the way Jaskier’s breath trembled a little, despite him wearing a thick, knitted sweater and using the mug to warm his hands. “The heater in the living room switches off for no reason, we still haven’t figured out how to fix it. It really gets cold in there,” he said. Jaskier shrugged, making Geralt sigh in exasperation. “Alright, how about you take my bed, and I’ll go to sleep at Eskel’s?”

“Didn’t you just call his room a dumpster?” Jaskier asked, the corners of his mouth twitching. Geralt swore under his breath. “Okay, how about we both sleep in your bed?” Jaskier suggested. “I suppose you have a big bed, considering your size, and I don’t take up much space, anyway.”

This was something that Geralt didn’t want to propose himself, but what he was secretly hoping for. He remembered the way Jaskier’s body pressed against his back at the bar, the curve of his lower back under Geralt’s hand. “Alright,” he agreed, perhaps a little too readily. “I’m gonna find you some pj’s.”

“Just give me a t-shirt and I’ll be fine,” Jaskier said, smiling. “Thank you, by the way. For everything.”

Geralt only waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, looking away. He didn’t really do anything. He just noticed a boy in trouble and got him out of it. Big deal.

“I’m afraid I don’t have a spare toothbrush,” he said to change the topic. “Sorry about it. We have mouthwash, though, which is better than nothing.”

He glanced at Jaskier, who was watching him with a soft, affectionate smile on his lips. He nodded, lifting up his mug to drink the rest of his chamomile tea in one go. Before he left the kitchen, he put the mug in the sink.

Geralt felt as though he should say something, but didn’t know what, so he only pointed Jaskier to the bathroom, still sweet-scented with Eskel’s perfume, while he went to his room to find a t-shirt for the singer. Jaskier wasn’t short, really, but he was slim and overall smaller than Geralt and finding something that wouldn’t swallow him whole wasn’t an easy task. Eventually, Geralt dug up an old shirt with a print of a white wolf, designed by their mom. It was a shirt he’d gotten from their parents for his sixteenth birthday. Eskel got a matching one for his.

“Ooh, that’s one scary-looking wolf,” Jaskier said, stopping at the door. “Where is it from?”

Geralt smirked, handing him the shirt. “My parents got those shirts for me and Eskel. Mom designed it. It’s—. Our father is an ethnographer, he specialises in Slavic folklore. When we were kids, he used to tell us lots of stories of the Slavic monsters and witchers that hunted them, saving people. We loved to play witchers. We made ourselves swords out of wood, cardboard armor, and so on. We thought that wolves were so cool and scary that we made a wolf the trademark of our little witcher guild.”

Jaskier smiled, leaning against the doorframe, looking at the wolf on the shirt. “That’s adorable, but this beast is still creepy.”

“It’s the smallest shirt I own, I’m afraid,” Geralt said, shrugging. “I gotta use the bathroom, I’ll be right back.”

Jaskier nodded, pulling his knitted sweater off. The lacy button-up he wore underneath pulled up a little, showing a glimpse of a pale, flat stomach. Geralt swallowed, looking away. Bathroom, he told himself. Go to the bathroom.

He peed and brushed his teeth, trying to think of anything but Jaskier with his impossibly blue eyes and small hands, and that smile. It’s been almost three months since Geralt had broken up with Yen, almost two since that unfortunate hook-up with the girl that was now dating his brother, and he was growing a little sexually frustrated. But trying to initiate something with Jaskier would be low and wrong, it would be taking advantage of him. Geralt intended to be a perfect gentleman tonight, ask for the singer’s number in the morning, ask him out sometime next week, and maybe try something then, when Jaskier wouldn’t be so vulnerable.

He took a deep breath, before walking into his bedroom and closing the door. Jaskier sat cross-legged on the bed, the t-shirt loose on his shoulders and long enough to cover his hips. Geralt tore his eyes away from Jaskier’s bare legs and the hem of his bright pink briefs, looking at the singer’s face, instead. Jaskier attempted to smile but didn't succeed. Geralt raised his brows in a silent question.

“It’s nothing,” Jaskier said, shaking his head. He put his phone down on the bedside table and slid under the duvet, rolling onto his side and pulling his knees up to his chest.

Geralt wanted to ask, to know, but they barely knew each other, he had no right to expect answers. He switched off the lights and crawled into the bed, trying to keep a healthy distance between their bodies. They lay like this for some time, until Jaskier let out a heavy, almost teary sigh.

“What sort of a name is Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

“It’s Polish for a buttercup.”

There were two questions Geralt could ask in response. “Buttercup?” he asked first.

Jaskier laughed softly, rolling onto his back and glancing at Geralt. “I think they’re adorable,” he said. “Just very ordinary, pretty flowers. I love the colour.”

“Why Polish, though?” Geralt asked, tilting his head to the side to look at Jaskier’s profile — a small, round nose and small, pouty lips. He looked very young.

Jaskier shrugged. “I have a friend, well, she’s almost like a sister to me, really. She’s half-Danish, half-Polish. I used to ask her to translate every word into both languages for me. And, I don’t know, Jaskier just has a nice ring to it, and I needed a stage name because my real name—.”

He trailed off, biting his lip. Geralt knew he should probably leave it, but he needed to know. “Julian?” he said quietly. Jaskier closed his eyes, the muscles of his jaw twitching.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, his voice flat. “Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove.”

Geralt tried his best to not snort out loud at this. “Pankratz?” he repeated.

Jaskier sighed, his mouth twitching as if he was trying to hold back a smile. “Yeah. The longest and most pretentious name imaginable,” he admitted. “Allegedly my great-great-grandfather was some unimportant Dutch noble. A viscount, I believe. My father’s still mentally in late nineteenth century, hence the ridiculous name. He wanted me to become a lawyer so that I was worthy of our heritage.” He raised his hands to draw quotation marks in the air. “He got very upset when I dropped out of law school and did literary studies instead. We kind of fell out after that.”

“And your mom?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier took a deep breath. “My mom… I don’t see her too much. She’s not home often, you know.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “Okay, alright, she’s in a mental hospital most of the time. Schizophrenia. She needs special care, and my father is an asshole, who’d rather have her locked away. You know, a viscount with a mad wife, not a good look.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly.

Jaskier smiled, rolling his head to the side to look him in the eye. “Are you sure witchers were just hunting monsters and not bewitching people?” he asked, his fingers touching the print on the shirt. “Because you must’ve bewitched me if I’m telling you all this.”

Geralt wanted to kiss him. He was sure Jaskier would let him. But it wouldn’t be right, it would be taking advantage of a broken boy. Geralt was better than this.

“And that guy?” he asked.

Jaskier shifted his gaze back to the ceiling, pressing his lips together. His fist curled at his t-shirt, crumpling the wolf’s snout. “When Essi — that friend of mine — left to study in Denmark, I was very lonely,” he said. “That guy, Marcus, he’s the son of my father’s best friend. My father is super homophobic, so I thought that this is a great way to piss him off, you know. And it did piss him off, it’s just that—.”

“Did he hurt you?” Geralt asked with a note of cold anger to his voice. Jaskier glanced at him, surprised by this.

“Not physically,” he said. “Just some gaslighting and stuff.”

_Just_. Geralt closed his eyes, trying to suppress the urge to pull Jaskier into his arms and protect from all the evil of this world.

“I broke up with him when Essi came back from Denmark and asked me what the fuck I was doing,” Jaskier said, laughing softly. “He didn’t take it very well, as you could see.”

“Fucking piece of shit,” Geralt spat, opening his eyes.

Jaskier chuckled. “Yeah, that’s what she called him,” he said, rolling to his side, facing Geralt. “Your mom’s an artist?” he asked, letting go off the wolf on his shirt.

Geralt shook his head, smiling. “No, she’s a doctor, actually,” he said. “A surgeon,” he said, seeing Jaskier’s shocked expression. “But she’s really good at drawing, she often makes sketches for dad’s publications. You know, many of them are bestiaries, kind of.”

“That’s so sweet,” Jaskier said.

There was a note of melancholy to his tone that Geralt didn’t like. He reached out to touch Jaskier’s hand in a simple offer of compassion. Jaskier smiled, his fingers sliding against Geralt’s as he shifted closer, cuddling into Geralt’s side. It would be so easy to take it further, all Geralt had to do was tilt his head to the side, pull that delicate hand down, under the covers. But he only gave Jaskier’s hand a gentle squeeze and listened to his breath, growing steadier and deeper as he fell asleep.

*

He woke up spooning Jaskier, with his nose buried in the singer’s soft hair, an arm around his waist, and — worst of all — a raging boner pressing against his butt. Jaskier seemed to be fast asleep still, and with a little bit of careful manoeuvring, Geralt might be able to get back to his side of the bed without waking him up. He tried to move his hips away, but Jaskier followed, pressing back into his chest and, well, the nether regions. Geralt swore internally, but his cock was more than happy with the situation.

Geralt took a deep breath, attempting to extract his arm from under Jaskier’s, but this only resulted in the singer waking up with a small, displeased groan. “Don’t go,” he whispered, his elbow trapping Geralt’s hand.

And how could Geralt refuse? He sighed, hugging Jaskier tighter, nosing against his neck that smelled of something sweet and earthy. Jaskier took his hand, interlacing their fingers, pressing Geralt’s palm against his chest, where his heart fluttered in a steady, if too quick rhythm.

They lay like this for a moment, not moving, not speaking, suspended in tense silence. And then Jaskier took a deep, shaky breath, turning in Geralt’s arms, his delicate hands cupping Geralt’s face as their eyes met, and so did their lips.

Jaskier’s kisses were sweet and gentle, devoid of possessiveness, of need to mark Geralt as his own. Jaskier’s kisses were curious, a little teasing, inviting, and Geralt took this invitation, kissing him deeper, rolling on top of him, making him produce a small, needy sound and push his hips pushing upwards to meet Geralt’s, and—.

“God, I wanna blow you so bad,” Geralt rasped, breaking their kiss, pulling on Jaskier’s lower lip with his teeth.

Jaskier let out a tiny moan, grabbing Geralt by the hair, wrapping it around his fists, and pulling him down into another kiss, this time far more wet and hungry. “Please do,” he murmured into Geralt’s mouth.

So Geralt threw the duvet away, stretching to reach his bedside table, rummage through the drawer in search of condoms, in the meantime finding about everything else — two kinds of lube, Yen’s vibrator, handcuffs that were a souvenir of Geralt’s brief fling with Regis, his own dildo, hell, even the cock ring he was sure he’d lost on that trip to Wales. Finally, he found the squashed cardboard box.

He kissed Jaskier on the neck, a collarbone peeking from under Geralt’s loose t-shirt, and stomach showing from under its hem. He bit into Jaskier’s thigh, gently, without trying to leave a mark or cause pain, because Jaskier was not Yennefer.

Yennefer could put a condom on with nothing but her mouth, but Geralt definitely wasn’t skilled enough to even attempt it. He decided to stick with more traditional methods. The last time he’d been with another man was years ago, before Regis left to write his doctorate in the Romanian mountains, so his technique was a little rusty, but Regis always said that sucking cock was like riding a bike, you never really forgot how to do it.

Jaskier guided him patiently — with his hands wrapped in Geralt’s hair and his voice, a little strangled by pleasure. Geralt listened to both the words and the touch, corrected his mistakes, tried new things, learning Jaskier’s anatomy, figuring out his needs and sensitive spots. And Regis had been right, it really was like riding a bike, the first few minutes felt strange and overwhelming, but then your body remembered what to do and how.

Jaskier was nothing like Regis, though. Regis had always liked it a little rough, he liked to feel Geralt’s teeth and nails, and he liked to use teeth and nails on Geralt, too. Geralt called him his vampire sometimes because of the way he liked to suck deep bruises into Geralt’s neck. What Jaskier preferred, though, was gentle touch and steady pace. What he preferred was less of animalistic frenzy and more of an all-around sensual experience. What got him off was the sounds Geralt made while blowing him, the view of Geralt’s mouth around him, the touch of Geralt’s coarse hair between his fingers. And though after Regis and Yen, Geralt had been convinced he liked it rough, now he was finding out that it wasn’t really the case, that he just liked it, period, rough or vanilla, it didn’t matter.

Jaskier was close, his entire body taut like a guitar string. He threw back his head, giving Geralt’s hair a gentle tug. “Kiss me, witcher,” he whispered.

And though Geralt had been convinced that words just weren’t something that had any effect on him, now he moaned, his cock twitching. He pushed himself up, kissing this little singer, his hair falling down around their faces, shielding them from the soft morning light and the sounds of the city waking up. He must’ve tasted of latex, but Jaskier didn’t seem to mind, his tongue pressing against Geralt’s.

Geralt reached out for lube, blindly, trying to distinguish between the water- and silicone-based one by the feel of the bottle alone. Soon enough the unnecessary condom was thrown on the floor, Geralt's underwear landed next to it, and Jaskier shuddered and gasped when the lube first touched his skin, a little cold still.

Geralt kissed him, taking Jaskier's right hand and pinning it to the mattress above his head. He took care of both of them, feeling Jaskier thrust into his hand and against his cock, tasting his little moans. Jaskier's eyes were closed, while his mouth was open, and he looked so beautiful, so perfect, and Geralt wanted to keep him, he wanted to make this little singer happy, safe, _his_.

There was a moment when Jaskier was right at the edge of release, breath hitching in his chest, and Geralt tried to chase him but was still far away. There was a moment when Jaskier came with a soft whimper, arching his back and squeezing Geralt's hand with force Geralt didn't expect from him. And there was a moment when Jaskier opened his eyes, still hazy and so blue, when he raised a hand to touch Geralt's cheek, the slightest brush of his fingers against Geralt's rough stubble, when he smiled and said, “Witcher.” Geralt's breath caught, his vision blurred and softened, and he came all over his hand and the wolf t-shirt, the witcher t-shirt.

He slumped, burying his face into Jaskier's neck, breathing hard against his skin, still dazed. Jaskier stroked his hair and kissed his forehead, and all of this was just so unexpected, so different, so overwhelming. Geralt had to keep this little singer in his life, he needed this little singer to teach him things about himself that he wasn't aware of.

They must've napped a little because the next thing Geralt heard was a train passing by, a long and heavy one, the one that passed around nine. He pushed himself up on an elbow, narrowing his eyes before the morning sunlight. Jaskier looked at him with a smile.

“Howdy, witcher,” he murmured.

“Howdy, minstrel,” Geralt said, leaning in to kiss him softly. “Wanna shower?” he asked. “And I'll make some breakfast.”

Jaskier made a small noise of protest. “How about you shower with me and then I'll help you with breakfast?”

This was too tempting for Geralt to resist. They kissed in the shower, they kissed in the kitchen, they talked about books and philosophy, about Slavic languages and Slavic monsters, and it was nearly noon when Jaskier said, “I need to get going.”

“Can you give me your number first?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier typed it into Geralt's phone and laughed when Geralt got surprised by the spelling of his name. Geralt called him as soon as he saved the number. Jaskier watched his phone buzz with a strangely affectionate expression.

“You can call me if that guy ever bothers you again, or if you just want to—.” Geralt trailed off, shrugging.

“Go out on a date with you?” Jaskier suggested, raising his brows.

Geralt smiled, fully, earnestly. “Yeah, for example.”

“Gotcha.” Jaskier smiled, saving the contact.

_Geralt the Witcher_ , it said.


End file.
